


Peace means forever

by Leximuth



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: And you will heal, But things will be okay, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Not A Fix-It, Original Character Death(s), Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Serious Injuries, drive-by shooting, therapy helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23475580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leximuth/pseuds/Leximuth
Summary: Peace was never going to last forever. The way Whirl said that sentence had varied over the years; at first, with apparent violent glee, and gradually with more bitterness, and a few centuries in something like regret. But it was never, at any point, going to last.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Peace means forever

Peace was never going to last forever. The way Whirl said that sentence had varied over the years; at first, with apparent violent glee, and gradually with more bitterness, and a few centuries in something like regret. But it was never, at any point, going to last.

"I love being right," Whirl told the mech whose fuel pump had just spattered all over the floor. (He hated being right.) He'd never disarmed but he'd also lowered his standard operating level of violence, so he had been caught off-guard like a civilian when the shooting started and now he was crouched behind the bar beside the dead bartender, desperately shifting ammo internally and hoping he'd been at least slightly concealed by the colorful spray of shattering bottles. Whirl hadn't even seen who'd opened fire. Sloppy. He didn't even have a pistol on him. Sloppier.

The screaming hadn't stopped, but the shooting had. Whirl took a lightning-fast glance over the bar, ducking back down to process the glimpse - the bar's windowed front was shattered, and everyone inside had either hit the floor or been dropped there. The screaming was from outside. A drive-by.

"Fuck," Whirl muttered, because it seemed appropriately old-fashioned. His internal weaponry was finally loaded. He thudded his head back into the bar, then again because fuck it. Then he got up, because the screaming had turned to sobs and he had never liked being around for that part.

It was still early for a drink and there'd only been six people in the place when he'd walked in five clicks ago to say hey; there were four getting to their feet now, plus two bodies judging by the way Highbrow was straightening up from checking Loader and the grim look on his face. Halfway under a table, Waveform looked wild around the optics, shocky in a way Whirl hadn't seen since he'd had two optics of his own; the kid had never seen combat, he realized with a jerk somewhere deep inside. The kid had never seen a dead body. The kid had never been shot at or seen a friend bleed out or -

"Lightbar," Waveform said shakily, then: "Lightbar? Where's Lightbar, he was right behind the..."

Fuck. Whirl grabbed the kid before he could stagger over to the bar where Lightbar's fuel pump had splattered all over the damn bottles of Nightmare Fuel that Swerve kept under the counter for the old-timers who came in shivering when it was sunspot-hot weather. "Outside," he heard himself say. "Come on, kid, stick with me. We're going outside." Highbrow met Whirl's optic and took the kid's other side, shepherding him out the pockmarked door. There were no bodies on the street, thank whatever needed thanking for that, but he saw at least three civvies sobbing over spilled energon. Roundabout staggered out of the bar behind him, an arm under the shoulder of some jet. The jet was bleeding out.

Whirl shoved Waveform into Highbrow, letting him sort that fucking mess, and took on the nice, normal problem of sliced fuel lines. Roundabout hadn't even gotten the jet sitting yet before Whirl was claws-deep in the mech's side, optic already bright enough to see into the wound and yank pieces of the window out of his cables. The jet choked on a scream at that but fuck it, cables weren't life-threatening. The fuel lines were the problem, pulsing hot and steady and slicking up Whirl's claws as he tried to clamp down anything he could reach. He didn't have enough claws for this shit.

"I've got him," someone said at his shoulder, and Whirl was leaning back before he even consciously registered the medic's red cross. First Aid's visor gave nothing away as he took over, hands already clear-coated with protective sealant moving quick and assured from one line to another, ordering a drip from someone else, calling in a heavier transport to evac the jet, and Whirl almost objected because like hell did a freight shuttle have heavy enough armor but that - that wasn't right, was it? That wasn't right.

Whirl got out of First Aid's way, then out of the next medic's way, then out of everyone's way. There was a crowd. He pushed through them. Out. Away. No one tried to stop him, which was good. He didn't want to be stopped. He wanted to get out of there. He wanted to walk it off. 

Walking it off took a while.

Whirl would click his claws, tick-tick, tick-tock, and that usually helped when his head was full like this but there was energon gumming shit up. Tap-tap it went instead and that wasn't quite right. He did the venting thing that Tailgate always made him do, in through ventral out through dorsal, reverse fans, in through dorsal out through ventral; it helped, slowly, though he'd try to tick-tick and instead he'd tap-tap and jerk his way into the next reversal with a heave that kinda hurt and he'd have to start again. Ventral reverse dorsal reverse...

He was pacing in front of their door. It was open, and Cyclonus stood there watching him silently. Not impatient. Waiting, like a planet waits for its circling moon to splash down. Tailgate's voice was somewhere inside, somewhere with blankets and warmed low-test probably. A space between them on the couch. Solvent to clean his claws. That sounded... good. That sounded like a plan.

He stopped. It felt heavy to do, like landing hard after a long flight. "Okay," he said roughly. "Okay."

Cyclonus nodded, reached for Whirl's claws. Took him inside - gently, carefully, but not delicately. It had taken time to get the balance right. Whirl still bristled at it some days. Tailgate was ready with hot solvent and warm low-test, optic band bright with worry but his voice bright and busy. Not meaningless chatter, never that, but normal. He'd seen a lovely gemstone on a coworker's desk that matched Cyclonus perfectly. He'd thought about whether either of them would appreciate jewelry. He'd wanted to ask right away but thought he'd try to convince them in person. Audible wink. Was Whirl convinced yet?

"Yeah," Whirl rasped. His claws twitched, tick-tick, in Cyclonus' gentle grasp. "Sure, why not. Let's get a chain you can hang from my cannons."

Cyclonus hummed at that, the little low engine noise he made instead of a laugh like a normal person. Tailgate laughed enough for both of them, leaning against Whirl's shoulder to watch Cyclonus oil the spotlessly cleaned joints of Whirl's claws. "Shameless," he said fondly, "just the way we like you."

"You can't stand me," Whirl told him, turning to nuzzle his palps against Tailgate's hilariously flat head. "I leave my dirty dishes all over. I kick in my recharge."

"Like a mule," Cyclonus added dryly, which necessitated some explanations as he helped them up off the washrack floor and out onto the couch. There were blankets. Whirl wasn't surprised. He also was not a mule, thank you Cyclonus, now that pet name was going to go into regular rotation and he'd never hear the end of it.

The couch was soft, broken in just right, and it sagged in the middle where Whirl always threw himself down. It tipped him just right against Cyclonus, and Tailgate gave up all pretense of decency and just climbed onto their laps. Degenerate. Whirl nuzzled him again.

"Venting exercise time?" Tailgate asked, passing the remote to Cyclonus. "Or talking?"

"Ugh," Whirl told him, earning a snicker. "Nah, already did the venting. Doing. Same thing."

"Talking, then. Even just a sentence." Tailgate carefully didn't look up at him, just leaned in a little more securely. Cyclonus carefully watched the muted vidscreen. Whirl had never done well with optic contact. Talking was hard for all that he did it all the time.

"A sentence," he said, because he wouldn't be Whirl if he didn't make them huff in exasperation once in a while. "Alright. Fine. Just... I don't know."

They waited. The words stuck.

"Don't know what," Tailgate prodded, gently but so damn insistent. "What happened?"

Nah, that was easy. "Drive-by," Whirl said. "At Swerve's. Swerve is fine, he was out back."

Cyclonus vented then, in reverse out. He'd always been good at hearing the unsaid bits.

"Dunno everyone who was there," Whirl said, because he had to say something. "Two casualties. Maybe three, but First Aid is good."

Tailgate gripped his claw then, a little too tight. Still careful not to look at him. "You don't have to distance it like that. A horrible thing happened to you today. It doesn't have to be numbers in a report."

"...Okay." Whirl tried. It stuck somewhere low, somewhere below his vocalizer. He twisted, ducking against Cyclonus' pauldrons. "Okay. Okay, I... I got shot at today." There was a soft touch against his antenna, light enough to be ignored. "I got shot at. People got shot. People got dead. Loader's dead and he owed me ten creds, and Lightbar's dead, and he was just a kid, he'd just started dating Waveform and he's dead and his innermost energon is all over Swerve's floor and I had my claws in some guy's chassis and I hate it. I hate it. I hate-"

"Ventral," Tailgate said softly. "There you go. Reverse. Dorsal. We've got you."

They vented together. When he felt like he could again, Whirl said, "Today sucked. I call do-over."

Talking time over, Tailgate looked up at him with a bright-optic grin. "Agreed. We'll try today again tomorrow." Cyclonus made that hum again, and Whirl managed something like a chuckle but a little like a hysterical cackle. It wasn't that funny but Tailgate's hand was warm and Cyclonus' shoulder was steady. They got him. They _got_ him.

The combat protocols finally let go of Whirl like slamming into a downdraft, a lurch of free-falling and the punch of relief at catching solid air again. He vented again, shaky but calmer, squeezing Tailgate's hand briefly to reassure him as Whirl's rotors started to rattle. "I'm alright," Whirl said, then quickly, "I'm not. I will be. I'm a mess."

"Our mess," Tailgate said.

"Can you tell us what you're feeling?" Cyclonus asked, because of course he didn't pull his punches.

"No," Whirl told him, but it wasn't refusal. "Lots. Just a lot of feeling."

Tailgate squeezed his claw. "It's okay," Tailgate told him. "Feel what you need to. We're here while you figure things out."

The vidscreen was playing some ad Whirl had seen ten times in the last megacycle, mundane and strange. He vented slow and steady. The feeling kept getting too big, trying to turn into anger because anger was easy and insulating and safe. He vented. Cyclonus was warm against his side. His rotors rattled, stilled, rattled again. Tailgate smoothed his thumb over the outer curve of Whirl's claw, soothing, rhythmic. It was okay.

It wasn't okay, but they would be okay.


End file.
